Lessons from a Latin Lover

by Anne McAllister

  “I don’t think he needs obstacles in his path,” Molly said drily. It seemed far more likely to her that, faced with any sort of obstacle, Carson was likely to shrug and take the path of least resistance.

  But Joaquin disagreed. “Of course he does. A man doesn’t value what he doesn’t have to work for.”

  “And you think he’ll work to go to bed with me?”

  Her question seemed to pull him up short. For a moment he didn’t reply at all. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  “Odd that you should keep having these stunned reactions to the very notion of going to bed with me,” Molly said shortly.

  Joaquin’s teeth came together with a snap. “Do you still think I don’t desire you?” he demanded.

  “It doesn’t matter whether you do or not,” Molly said with painful honesty. “We both know you’re not going to do anything about it.”

  At her words, something in Joaquin seemed to snap. He grabbed her and kissed her with such heat and such fury that she thought they might go up in flames right where they stood. She didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but this. But him!

  His hands slid under her T-shirt, stroking her breasts through the lace of her bra, then unfastening it to caress her bare skin. She trembled and felt him tremble, too. He tugged up her shirt and he bent his head, kissing her breasts, stroking them with his thumbs, pebbling her nipples.

  She shuddered. Her own hands gripped his shirtfront, clawed, petted, stroked. She needed—she wanted—

  —the damn phone to stop ringing.

  “Don’t answer it,” Joaquin muttered, his mouth against her breasts. “Don’t move.”

  But she had to. “It might be Fiona. She might need help. Or…or Carson.”

  Oh, God. Carson.

  “I have to get that,” she insisted, and trying to pull her wits together, went to answer the phone.

  It was Syd, full of news and plans for the festival. Was the banner Molly had been working on finished? No. Well, that was all right. It didn’t matter. Syd knew how busy she had been taking care of Duncan and all. But now that Duncan was back with Fiona and she had time could she help out with the art show? And would she do some face painting one afternoon at the carnival? And wasn’t it wonderful that things were coming along so well despite Lachlan’s accident?

  “Yes,” Molly said tonelessly. “Yes.” And “Yes,” again.

  She’d do anything. Everything. If only she didn’t have to turn around and face what she’d almost done with the man standing in her living room.

  “Terrific,” Syd said happily. “You’re a pal! One of the good ’uns, Mol’.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Molly said.

  It didn’t matter if Syd heard the irony in her voice. Molly knew it was there. That was enough.

  She hung up and turned to find Joaquin standing in the doorway behind her. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

  “No.”

  His face looked strained, harsh. No devil-may-care man this, she thought, but didn’t take the time to wonder why. She knew why. Things were getting complicated. Demanding. And where women were concerned Joaquin didn’t do complicated or demanding.

  He just did honorable, she thought with bitter humor.

  “I still think it would be a good idea if I stayed,” he said.

  She stared at him.

  “I do,” he insisted. “You want to wake Carson—” for the first time he came down on her fiancé’s correct name with both feet “—up. You can do that by not being as available as he expects you to be. His interest will be provoked. He’ll take a second, harder look—and see that you’re not just his old pal Molly but a delectable desirable woman.”

  “Whereupon I invite him home to go to bed, to make love, and you’re in the room across the hall?” she finished for him.

  His mouth twisted. “I didn’t say I had it all worked out. I said it was a good idea if I move in, that it would provoke him. Maybe he can invite you back to the inn. No,” he corrected himself almost once, “that’s not a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lachlan.”

  “Lachlan isn’t even here. He won’t be back until Sunday.”

  “Even so,” Joaquin muttered. Brown eyes met hers. “Don’t worry. We can improvise.”

  “Is that what we were doing in the other room?” she asked. If he wasn’t going to talk about it, she was.

  He rubbed a hand over his face. “We were making a mistake,” he said.

  “Again.”

  His teeth set. “If you like.”

  “And we won’t make any more of them.” It wasn’t a question. It couldn’t be a question. She couldn’t take the uncertainty any longer.

  He ran his tongue over his lips, but he met her gaze steadily. “Whatever you want, Molly.”

  “I don’t want you to kiss me again.”

  His expression became shuttered. He let out a slow careful breath. “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is, damn it.”

  He nodded slowly, then turned away. “I’ll put my gear upstairs.”

  HE LAY ON THE BED and stared at the ceiling. Overhead a fan circled lazily. In the corner on the floor his bags lay open. His clothes and papers were scattered on the chair and the bureau, staking his claim the way he would claim his turf in a match.

  This field is mine, he would say by his presence, his actions, his domination.

  It felt exactly the same here.

  Something else felt familiar as well. It didn’t happen often, thank God, but it wasn’t unheard of to feel out of sync, to lose the rhythm, the sense of inevitability, of movement, of flow.

  Then all you could do was try to find it, to run desperately, frantically, urgently. Like he was doing now.

  The news that Carson was going to be staying with Molly had sent a stab of panic straight through him. It was wrong; he was convinced of that. It wouldn’t prove anything, except that Sawyer was as susceptible to temptation as the next man.

  He would bed her. He might even marry her.

  But would he love her?

  As far as Joaquin was concerned, Carson had to prove it.

  And if he did? If he loved Molly the way she deserved to be loved and demonstrated it?

  He shoved the thought away. He’d never let himself think about losing.

  He damned well wasn’t going to think about that!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SOMETIMES, MOLLY THOUGHT, life was bizarre beyond words.

  Here she was, plotting to seduce her own fiancé, and at the same time allowing another man to move into her house.

  And not just any man, either.

  A stud. A heartthrob. The Casanova of the pitch. A man who could take his pick of almost all the women in the Western world. And quite frequently did.

  Carson would be appalled.

  If Carson even noticed.

  Despite Joaquin’s insistence that he would, Molly wasn’t sure. Carson’s mind was generally on far more compelling things than who was sleeping in his fiancée’s spare bedroom. And she didn’t imagine for a minute that he would believe there was anything more risqué going on than that.

  He probably didn’t even believe she could kiss the way she did.

  Until a few days ago, she wouldn’t have believed it, either. And apparently it hadn’t been a one-off. She was still feeling a little shattered from this afternoon’s encounter. If Syd hadn’t rung when she had—

  Molly pressed her fingers to her eyes. It didn’t bear thinking about!

  The trouble was, of course, thinking about it was all she’d done since. That and keep out of Joaquin’s way for fear of doing it again!

  Fortunately he had taken her at her word. She’d stayed downstairs and he’d gone up. She’d fixed a meal in the kitchen, though she hadn’t been able to swallow a morsel. And she didn’t invite him to share with her. She remembered the last meal they had shared all too well.

  It didn’t matter anyway. He came
downstairs while she was in the kitchen, and from the stony look on his face, she imagined he remembered, too. Quickly she’d turned her back, and he’d gone out without a word.

  When she heard the door shut, she peeked out past the kitchen curtains to watch him leave, wondering if perhaps he had changed his mind about staying after all. But she hadn’t seen him carrying any duffel bags. When she was sure he was out the gate and far away, though, she darted upstairs to be certain.

  His duffels were still there. The sheets she’d set on the bed this morning, intending to make it up when she had given Duncan back to Fiona, had already been put on the bed.

  His shaving kit was in the bathroom. There was a folder full of papers on the bureau and his clothes were tossed carelessly on the chair.

  So apparently he had no intention of leaving. On the contrary, it looked as if he were settling in.

  Or maybe it was part of the plan he’d outlined for her earlier—about letting himself be an “obstacle” for Carson to overcome.

  It was all too convoluted for her.

  She should never have started this. It had seemed so simple, so sensible when she’d thought of it. Like preventive maintenance on one of the mokes or the Jeep. Her relationship with Carson had been dodgy, like an engine needing its timing fixed, its spark plugs gapped.

  So she figured she’d give it a tune-up, get it running more smoothly, get better mileage.

  God, what a fool she was.

  And what was even more difficult was that Carson had no idea. He would come home this weekend and expect everything to be exactly the way it had always been, with no notion that she’d been messing around under the hood, as it were, while he was gone.

  When he’d left they’d had a serviceable if not terribly exciting engagement.

  And now they had—what?

  She didn’t even know anymore.

  For a woman who liked things clear and uncomplicated, she was in decidedly murky waters. And it was all her own fault.

  She really did need a cat. Cats had a way of keeping you in line, reminding you what was important—like food and naps. They didn’t tinker with spark plugs. Or engagements.

  Speaking of which, she wondered how long it would be until Joaquin was engaged himself.

  That was probably where he’d gone tonight—off to spend the evening with his parents and the prospective bride.

  She felt an odd hollow ache when she thought about it. Stupid, really. It wasn’t as if she had any claim on him. It was just that she hadn’t thought anyone else would, either. He’d always made it clear that he wasn’t the marrying kind.

  But then so had her brothers. Lachlan, especially, had never given any indication that he wanted to settle down until somehow Fiona blind-sided him. Then he’d practically moved heaven and earth to get her to say yes.

  Rakes make the best husbands. Wasn’t that some sort of axiom? Or old wives’ tale?

  In Lachlan’s case it was certainly true. A more devoted husband—and father—would be hard to find. And Hugh, too, who’d sowed some wild oats of his own after Carin Campbell had married Nathan Wolfe, had, once he’d found Syd, become as domestic as a cat.

  Would Joaquin?

  Molly stared out the window into the darkness and felt a hard lump in her throat. Her fingers knotted together fretfully. “What do you care?” she asked herself angrily.

  And she answered out loud, “I don’t!”

  Which meant she had better get a cat sooner rather than later as she was already starting to talk to herself.

  She went to bed at midnight. Joaquin hadn’t come back. There were revelers in the streets already. The earliest arrivals coming for the festival and for homecoming activities had begun to assemble today. She could hear noise and music from the Grouper three streets away.

  Had Joaquin taken Marianela there to show her a little bit of the island “culture”? Or were they with Fiona and the Santiagos, sitting on the deck overlooking the beach, enjoying quiet conversation? Or had he taken her off on a walk along the beach so he could have her to himself?

  Was he kissing Marianela now the way he had kissed her only hours ago?

  “Hell.” Could she think of nothing else?

  She turned off the light and went to bed. She didn’t sleep. That would have been too much to expect. The steel drums from the Grouper kept up a steady beat in the background. Nearer at hand, sounds of frogs croaking in the garden kept her awake. A breeze came up, clattering through the palms. Now and then there was a whoop and holler of a reveler with a few too many beers and way too much enthusiasm. Twelve-thirty became one. One became two. She heard more people in the street, heading home from the bars. Snatches of laughter, the refrain of a song.

  Then nothing.

  All was quiet. The wind died down. There was only the distant sound of the surf.

  The island had gone to sleep. Everyone except her.

  And Joaquin.

  He wasn’t asleep. Not across the hall anyway. He might be in bed, though. He probably was in bed—in Marianela’s arms.

  He wouldn’t come back tonight at all. She knew that. It didn’t matter that his duffel bags were here. It didn’t matter that his clothes were strewn everywhere. They weren’t what mattered.

  Molly knew what mattered to Joaquin—and it wasn’t the stuff he’d left across the hall in her spare room.

  She rolled over and hugged her pillow, wallowing in misery, trying to trick herself out of it, trying to pretend it was Carson she held. But her imagination wouldn’t let her. It couldn’t conjure up Carson. It wasn’t Carson who was in her mind tonight. Or in her heart.

  And then, she thought, she heard the door.

  At least she heard something. A soft creak. She raised up on her elbows and held perfectly still, listening, intent. Doubting her hearing.

  But then she heard it again. Yes, it was the creak of hinges. She heard the click as the door shut. The floorboards squeaked. Footsteps crossed the living room and started up the steps.

  She eased herself back down onto her side, her eyes open just enough to see him when he turned into the other room.

  Instead he stopped in the hall and turned toward hers. Her heart thumped against her chest so loudly she was sure he would hear it across the room. He didn’t move, just stood there looking in.

  She didn’t move. Couldn’t if her life had depended on it. She couldn’t talk to him tonight. Couldn’t smile and ask how his evening went, pretend a cheerful interest in the lovely Marianela. Didn’t want to see that he had been kissing her.

  Go. Just go. She pleaded silently.

  But he didn’t. He said her name instead. “Molly?”

  She ignored it, tried to breathe as evenly and quietly as she could so he would think she was asleep.

  He came closer, all the way to the bed.

  She stopped breathing, thinking for sure he would leave.

  Instead, he sat down beside her!

  Startled, she jerked and rolled to face him. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I figured it was about time you had another lesson.” His voice was rough and slightly slurred.

  She sat bolt upright. “What?”

  “Get you ready for Carson Bloody Perfect Sawyer,” he said raggedly.

  She frowned, and the penny dropped. “You’re drunk!”

  “Damn right I am.” He sounded belligerent. And a little petulant. Like Lachlan had when Fiona had dumped him and wouldn’t take his calls.

  “Why?” Molly demanded. “Did your girlfriend send you home frustrated?”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend!”

  “That’s not the way it looked to me. Marianela—”

  “Isn’t my girlfriend, damn it! I just met her today!”

  “Well, you’re a fast worker, Joaquin,” she said with false sweetness. “I’m sure it won’t take you long.”

  She tried to push him away or scramble out the other side of the bed, but he had one arm on either side of her and she
was trapped. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek.

  “I don’t want Marianela,” he said through his teeth. “She’s my mother’s idea of the perfect wife. Not mine. And I don’t want to talk about her, either. I want this!”

  And he took her mouth with his.

  It was not the fierce harsh angry kiss she’d been expecting. It was careful. Controlled. Deliberate.

  At first nothing touched but their lips. And they met softly, gently, slowly. They teased. Tasted. Tempted.

  Oh, how they tempted.

  By not pressing, by holding back and controlling, he made her ache, made her need, made her want to press closer, increase the intimacy, stoke the fire.

  He invited her to respond, to deepen, to give and receive, to learn and to explore. He barely did anything. He was simply there.

  But there was what mattered. There on his lips she could taste the whiskey. There in the softness of his hair, she could breathe in the scent of the sun and the sea. There was all around her something uniquely Joaquin.

  So close she could touch it.

  Close. But not enough.

  He only touched his lips to hers. He didn’t thread his fingers through her hair. He didn’t grab her and haul her hard against him.

  She couldn’t help it. She wanted more.

  More taste. More scent. More him.

  All her good sense fled. All her reasoned arguments vanished.

  Carson? She didn’t even think of him.

  She didn’t know which of them deepened the kiss. She had no sense of who moved, who led. But the kiss was no longer quite so gentle, soft, teasing. It was like a fire freshly fed. The need deepened. Desire flooded. Passion demanded more.

  And eventually even more wasn’t enough.

  Molly fell back on the bed and Joaquin came with her. Their bodies as well as their mouths crushed together. Hips shifted. Legs tangled. Hands explored.

  Some tiny part of her did remember kissing Carson. But this was completely different from the clumsy nose-banging efforts they had engaged in as teenagers. It was more intense and passionate than the kisses she’d exchanged with him since. The last time she’d kissed Carson it had been no more exciting than kissing her brothers.